One Year
by WalkingDictionary
Summary: Reid reflects on one of the most important nights of his life.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Criminal Minds.**

**Spoiler alert: If it was in Criminal Minds, it's in here.**

**The major episodes are: The Big Game; Revelations; Jones; No Way Out II: The Evilution of Frank; Doubt; In Birth and Death; 3rd Life; and Elephant's Memory**

Am I not good enough?

That is the question Jason Gideon asked himself before he walked away from the job.

But, really, he could have been asking me that question, too.

Am I still not good enough? Do I still think inside boxes? Can I still walk away?

I think Gideon got the idea to just leave from me. I remember a time in New Orleans when I told Gideon I needed to see if I could step away from the job. I couldn't, so does that make me stronger or weaker than him?

How indicative of me is it that I can't leave even if someone screws me up as much as they did to Gideon? I mean, he got a six month sick leave when six agents died on his watch and he got to run away when he couldn't stomach the job anymore. I was forcibly addicted to Diluadid, had several guns pointed at my face, and I killed two men.

I'm still here, even in pieces.

But, then, that begs the question: am I the reason that Gideon was unable to return to the job after his friend was killed? Did he discover that I'd shot up the night she died just before getting the call to come in?

I haven't taken a shot since that night. I've been clean, and it means nothing. Gideon is still gone and it's still my fault.

Oh, for the love of compartmentalizing. How I hate that term because, really, what we do to deal with what we see and do has nothing to do with taking pieces of our memories and putting them away somewhere. We see them every day.

It's the excuse Gideon gave me in his letter. "I couldn't look into the abyss anymore."

Guess what, Gideon? We are the abyss.

We are the monsters and the victims.

What do I mean by that? Exactly what I said. If given a chance, I'd have killed the entire student population at my high school—I sometimes think of doing that at our twentieth reunion. If allowed freedom and time, Morgan would have murdered Carl Buford when he finally confronted him. If Frank hadn't killed himself, Gideon would have.

I was physically abused, Morgan was sexually abused, and Gideon's friend died because of Frank. We all could have been Unsubs. Perhaps that's what Gideon spends his days doing now, killing Frank again and again. I'll have to look into that.

Earlier I said that the last time I shot up was the night Frank killed Sarah. I'd like to say that her death inspired me to stop killing myself, but really that was when the supply I'd stolen from Tobias Hankel ran out. I didn't buy anymore because I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to hide it much longer. I can only wear lopsided, pushed up sleeves so many times before they profile something about it.

I hate the feeling the Diluadid left me with when I used it—something close to flying for three or four seconds and then a crash that lasted three or four hours. I hate the empty feeling of being off it more. There is an ache that never quite disappears and some days, like the day with the Vaughans or with Owen Savage, hurt so bad that it feels like I'm breaking.

I wish I was as strong or weak as Gideon to walk away. I wish Hotch had fired me. But I am damn glad I still work for the BAU. That is the biggest consolation about being me: I am not Jason Gideon.

I have contemplated being an abyss, but maybe I wasn't ever one. Maybe it was Gideon and what he projected onto the rest of us. Maybe Gideon brought about my addiction; after all he was the one who angered Charles Hankel into beating me to death. Maybe I should blame Gideon instead of shouldering the blame for his shortcomings myself. Somehow I don't feel any better. I still feel as if there is something more sinister than a simple abyss lurking within me, waiting for the chance to claim another victim like it claimed Phillip Dowd, Tobias Hankel, and Jason Gideon.

Get away from me, I'm poison. I'm Diluadid. I'll make you feel better about yourself for a little while, but then reality will sink in and you'll either die or run away. Get the hell away from me.

My head is hurting and I need to stop thinking, but I haven't told you what I needed to say about tonight, about why I am numbing my behind on a bench three miles from Quantico and four from my apartment.

What I meant to say before I even opened my mouth, before you even sat down next to me—you really are here, right? Not just in my imagination? I was afraid of that—is that tonight, as significant as it may be, is really insignificant. It's the night that I get my one year medallion.

John's medallion is still in my pocket. It's been there for two months now. It feels almost familiar. Gideon did once too. And look where that ended up.

It's almost time for me to go to the meeting, to speak up in front of a bunch of brave men and women much older than myself who have decided to turn their lives around.

I pity them. I really do.

Some little piece of metal is supposed to keep them on track? To hell with that. And still the weight of John's medallion is comforting to me.

I am such a contradictory person tonight.

First, I look forward to giving John his medallion back, and man that'll be good. But then, the urge to shoot up as a final farewell to the drug almost hurts me. It feels like withdrawal all over again. And that's the only thing stopping me: I almost didn't make it through withdrawal the first time, so why should I do it again?

I wish Gideon would come back to say goodbye in person. I don't like not knowing if he meant to hurt me. I know, he wrote that he didn't, but he could have lied. He's used to lying. At least, I think he is. I haven't really profiled him that much.

It's hard to believe that I have only spent three or four minutes just waiting for my thoughts to stop running at the speed of light times ten. It hurts my head and makes me want Diluadid. I could slip away and score some pain relief by knocking myself unconscious, but I see the members of the Beltway Clean Cops beginning to arrive. No one drives to the meetings—they all take cabs, pay in cash, and walk at least three blocks to where the meeting is. And, as an extra precaution, the building is never the same two weeks in a row.

Ah, anonymity. Another thing we are addicted to.

When I see John, I touch his medallion. He'll be getting it back tonight, for sure. That's the one condition of the night that hasn't changed since I first devised how it would play out two months ago. He doesn't notice me, and that's just fine with me. I like to be unnoticed, keeps people from picking on me and making fun of me. It keeps people from creating one more Unsub.

Showtime, Kid, I think to myself—or did you say that? I am not a kid, no matter how many times someone calls me that. I jump to my feet almost eagerly. Why? To get this over with so I can go home and…cry, I think. Whatever. John smiles at me as I pass him. I smile back, already three or four rows ahead of where he is sitting. Suddenly he opens his hand and stares in shock or disbelief at his medallion. Realization spreads over his face and he gives me a thumbs up.

The rest of the members clap before I reach the front of the room. Do they know that I'm going to run as soon as I say what I have come to say? Again, I think, whatever.

"Hello, my name is Spencer and I have been clean for a full year today."

~The End~


End file.
